The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla A Pink Carnation Novel (11 page)

“No,” said Uncle Henry drily, “I don’t imagine you did. Sir Matthew had made up his mind that it was a crime of passion.” Uncle Henry added reflectively, “He did not have much use for women. He considered them hysterical creatures, prone to murdering their husbands.”

“All the same. Why not present him with your evidence?”

“And drag your father’s name into the mire?” There was the ring of steel beneath Uncle Henry’s words. At Lucien’s glance, Uncle Henry gentled his tone. “Under the circumstances, I was not inclined to press Sir Matthew to greater efforts. The less known about the whole distasteful affair, the better.” The corners of his lips twisted. “I had a hard enough time getting him to bring in a verdict of accident.”

“Was that better?” Lucien’s throat felt tight. “Letting the world believe that my mother killed my father?”

Uncle Henry’s shoulders slumped. “You were twelve years old. These decisions weren’t yours to make. What were my choices? I could see your father mocked as a cuckold—or scorned as a traitor.” A coal broke and hissed against the grate. In the silence, Uncle Henry said quietly, “I chose the lesser of two evils.”

“And their killer went free,” said Lucien bitterly.

He made to rise, but Uncle Henry clapped a hand on his shoulder. “If you imagine that hasn’t haunted me all these years, then you aren’t the man I thought you were. Oh, yes. I see them in my nightmares, still, crying for justice.” His hand fell away. “But it’s too late now.”

“Is it?” Lucien demanded. He rose unsteadily. His legs felt uncertain beneath him, and the room was wreathed in a haze. He caught at the back of the chair to steady himself. “If this is true—if the man is still alive, I’ll find him. I’ll find him and I’ll settle the score.”

Uncle Henry looked at Lucien for a long, considering moment.

Lucien met his eyes unflinchingly.

Uncle Henry’s gaze dropped first. “Be careful. One Duke of Belliston has already died at the hands of these weasels.” His expression turned wry. “It would seem like carelessness to lose another.”

Sally had lost her duke.

“Do tell me more about your stoat breeding program,” she said, smiling up at her dance partner as she tried to angle just a little bit to the left.

The Duke of Belliston had disappeared through those doors a good half hour ago and hadn’t come back.

The idea that he might have departed for good made the evening feel strangely flat. She wasn’t done with him yet. She had at least seventeen opening lines prepared, each wittier than the last.

So far, her quest to discover the duke’s dark secrets had not met with unparalleled success. There were certainly plenty of rumors circulating, but what with all the slaughtered chickens and Gypsy curses, Sally was having a hard time separating fact from fiction. Miss Gwen’s fiction, to be precise. Some of the theories being shared were lifted straight from the pages of
The Convent of Orsino
, which, as far as Sally knew, was a work of fiction, not a tell-all biography of the life and times of the Duke of Belliston.

She wanted to know about the man, not the myth. Where had he been all these years? Why did he lurk in overgrown gardens? And what was it that his sister had said that had made him look like thunder?

Their meeting the other night had piqued her curiosity. And if there was one thing Sally couldn’t endure, it was being piqued.

“You mustn’t believe everything you hear,” Mr. Fitzwarren announced.

Sally looked at him sharply. “About—?”

“About stoats.” Mr. Fitzwarren shook his flaming red head. “People have the oddest ideas about them.”

Sally didn’t have any ideas about them at all. “I’m afraid I’ve never met a stoat,” she said apologetically.

“They don’t seem to get about much.” Mr. Fitzwarren seemed genuinely bewildered by this state of affairs.

“Have you attempted popularizing them as pets?” Sally asked politely, her attention on the back of the ballroom. She wasn’t the only one. Half the people in the room seemed to be glancing over their shoulders for the duke; the other half contented themselves with gossiping about him.

“Would you like one?” Mr. Fitzwarren asked eagerly. “I can give you Lady Florence.”

Mr. Fitzwarren appeared to be looking at her expectantly. Sally shook herself back to the present. “Lady Florence who?”

“Lady Florence Oblong.” When Sally looked at him in puzzlement, Mr. Fitzwarren explained, “That’s the name of the stoat.”

“I see.” What Sally didn’t see was any sign of the duke. Blast.

On the other hand, the people dancing behind them were having a rather fascinating whispered conversation about the wrong the duke’s mother had done. It appeared to have something to do with . . . sacrificing chickens? Really, the acoustics in this room were dreadful.

“She’s a very genteel stoat.” What on earth was Mr. Fitzwarren on about? Oh, yes, Lady Florence Oblong. The stoat. “She’s very dainty about her kills.”

Two words Sally hadn’t expected to hear in the same sentence. “I’m sure she’s a paragon among stoats.”

“Oh, yes, she is! You see, stoats—”

Sally stepped down hard on her own hem. “Oh, dear! Will you excuse me, Mr. Fitzwarren? I seem to have torn the hem of my gown. Clumsy, clumsy me. I simply must make the necessary repairs.”

Sally waggled her fingers and staged her retreat before Mr. Fitzwarren could inform her that stoats, not having gowns, would never have this sort of problem. A very sweet man, Mr. Fitzwarren, but a bit single-minded. She couldn’t imagine anyone being that passionate about weasels, but, then, thought Sally tolerantly, there was no accounting for taste. It could be worse. It could be minks. Sally wrinkled her nose. Or poultry. She detested poultry. Nasty clucking things.

Rather like the gossips of the
ton
.

As Sally made her way towards the retiring room—after all, she wouldn’t want to hurt Mr. Fitzwarren’s feelings by not making repairs, even if there was nothing to repair—a rustling noise like the crackle of fallen leaves started at one end of the room and began to spread.

Sally felt a tingle of anticipation, like the bubbles in a glass of champagne, prickling against her fingers, making her stand straighter, hold her head a little higher. As casually as she could, she turned her head ever so slightly, and there he was, just a little bit different from every other man in the ballroom, his hair a little longer, his coat a little tighter, his cravat tied in a way that was somehow both more casual and slightly foreign, that single blot of crimson in the center, giving rise to a thousand whispers.

The duke had returned to the ballroom.

Sally released her pent-up breath in a long sigh, and then felt rather silly as she realized that a dozen others were doing the exact same thing. Not that it was at all the same. Unlike the others, she had met him.

And she still had a score to settle.

Instinctively, Sally looked for Agnes. But Agnes was with Lizzy, at the fringe of a circle of young Corinthians, all of whom seemed to be laughing uproariously at something Lizzy had just said. Sally started in their direction, and then just as abruptly stopped. They wouldn’t thank her for interrupting. And for what?

Sally looked for her sister-in-law, but Arabella was dancing with Turnip, laughing up at him as he twirled her in extravagant loops.

Sally felt something twist in her chest. She smiled at them, but it was a bittersweet smile, with something wistful around the edges.

Which was silly. Sally turned away, giving the skirts of her dress a little shake. She couldn’t have asked for a better sister-in-law. Really, she should be congratulating herself on seeing her brother so well settled. If it hadn’t been for her intervention, the two of them would never have made a match of it, as she might, in fact, have made a point of reminding the concerned parties a time or two. Or twenty. She was delighted that they had found such happiness in each other.

So why did she suddenly feel so low?

Maybe it was that something about the way that her brother was beaming at his wife made her feel more than a little bit
de trop
. If she went up to them, she knew, Turnip would tease her and Arabella would fuss over her. Their affection for each other was such that it left room for other people. But—Sally struggled with a nameless sensation of discontent—it was a secondhand affection. They came first with each other now. Which was as it should be.

But it still left Sally feeling strangely lonely and more than a little bit disgruntled. She missed feeling needed.

Sally rolled her eyes at herself. Any more of this and she’d turn herself into a watering pot. She straightened her shawl and readjusted her bracelets. What she needed was a project.

Such as a duke.

The duke was standing all by himself at the back of the room, doing his best to look brooding and mysterious, or as brooding and mysterious as one could in a well-lit ballroom with footmen pestering people by pushing champagne at them.

The man was in dire need of a little friendly advice—and who better than Sally to deliver it? Really, it would be a kindness, not to mention a shot in the eye to Delia Cathcart and Lucy Ponsonby and all the others whispering and gossiping and spreading their ridiculous rumors.

Sally cast a glance over her shoulder at her chaperone. Arabella was still occupied with Turnip.

Besides, Sally reassured herself, it didn’t really count as a breach of etiquette to address the duke, since, after all, they had met before. In a manner of speaking.

Having thus comfortably settled the matter for herself, Sally set forth with a swish of her skirts and her head held high.

If the duke wouldn’t come to her, she would just have to go to the duke.

Chapter Six

“Hello,” someone said, rather insistently.

It took a moment for Lucien to realize he was being addressed. There was a blond girl standing in front of him, tapping her slippered foot impatiently against the parquet floor. She looked, he realized, rather familiar.

“Oh,” he said. His tongue felt fuzzy, even though he had imbibed only a few sips of Uncle Henry’s claret. “It’s you.”

Under the dizzying light of a hundred candles, her hair was even brighter than it had appeared in the garden, the true gold of new-minted guineas.

The girl was undaunted by his grudging greeting.

“Sally Fitzhugh. Of the Norfolk Fitzhughs.
Not
the Hertfordshire Fitzhughs.” She seemed quite insistent about that. Before Lucien could respond, she peered closely at him. “Are you quite all right?”

“All right?” The very idea was so alien that Lucien didn’t know what to say. He was inclined to laugh, but he was afraid that, once started, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

What in the devil was in that claret of Uncle Henry’s?

He shouldn’t blame the claret. It wasn’t the drink that had set him reeling.

There was no proof; Uncle Henry had been quite clear about that. It was all speculation and inference. But while Lucien didn’t precisely believe his uncle’s accusations, he didn’t precisely disbelieve them either. And that was the problem. He was neither here nor there; he had been stripped of the comfort of his convictions and left entirely at sea.

Miss Fitzhugh cocked her head. “Let me be more specific. Are you about to swoon? Because, if so, I should like to step out of the way.”

“Am I about to— Good Lord, no!”

“You were looking more than a little bit wobbly,” said Miss Fitzhugh importantly. “Should you have need for it, I have a vinaigrette in my reticule.”

“I assure you, I have no need for a vinaigrette,” said Lucien, with some asperity. “If I were to be . . .
wobbly
 . . . any wobbliness is purely a wobbliness of the spirit.”

“Would your spirit like my vinaigrette, then? Because you do seem to need something.”

“A swift blow to the head,” Lucien muttered. Maybe then he’d wake up and find he’d imagined all of this.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” His uncle Philippe had warned him that when one went poking around in the past, one might stir up smelly fish. Or something like that. The idiom had been both pungent and in French. Lucien had brushed the words aside, convinced that they didn’t apply to him. He had been so sure of the justice of his cause. He was going to sally off to England, prove his mother’s innocence, and— Well, he hadn’t quite thought what was going to happen after that, but whatever it was involved a certain amount of smug self-satisfaction.

So much for that.

Lucien bowed to Miss Fitzhugh, taking refuge in pomposity. “Your concern does you credit, but I can assure you that your tender ministrations are entirely unnecessary.”

“I never minister unnecessarily,” said Miss Fitzhugh indignantly. “That would be a waste of both your time and mine. You look like death.”

That was the last thing he needed, more rumors about his supposed career as a creature of the night. “Not that again.”

Miss Fitzhugh pursed her lips. “What I meant is that you look a bit like you just staggered up from a prolonged illness while still in the weak-tea-and-porridge phase.”

It was a rather vivid image. Lucien’s lips reluctantly turned up at the corners. “I’m not sure that’s an improvement.”

“No,” agreed Miss Fitzhugh. “If you tasted my nurse’s porridge, you would agree that death was by far the better option. At least death wouldn’t taste like
glue
.”